


out of breath

by Frostandcoal



Category: All For The Game - Nora Sakavic
Genre: Gift!Fic, M/M, Post-Canon, brrr - Freeform, but neil josten style, clickbait!verse, snowed!in!fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-28
Updated: 2017-08-28
Packaged: 2018-12-20 19:39:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,418
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11927856
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Frostandcoal/pseuds/Frostandcoal
Summary: For tycutiovevo, who wanted Andreil in cold!weather, no angst. I hope you like this, bb! <3! <3!Neil wants to live his life like he plays Exy -- he wants the freedom to take chances, he wants the thrill of last-second goals, he wants the exhilaration of pushing his body to its limits, wants the ache and burn of every single bruise and scrape. His body is marked by other people’s cruelty and other people’s choices made on his behalf -- he wants to cover it with the marks of the life he chose for himself.Neil doesn't understand what a "blizzard" is, and thinks it's a good idea to go running in one. Andrew is not impressed.





	out of breath

**Author's Note:**

  * For [tycutiovevo](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tycutiovevo/gifts).



> Title and quote from Frank Turner's "Out of Breath" because SRSLY ALL HIS SONGS ARE AFTG NO LIE
> 
> Andrew perching on things is also my favorite. FYI.

_When you meet death_  
_Be out of breath_  
_And say you're pleased to see him because you're tired_

Neil wakes up on Thursday morning and can tell from the muted light outside the window that it’s cloudy. He gets out of bed and pads over to the window. It’s snowing, and he vaguely recalls the overly-excited weather forecasters talking about a blizzard and lake-effect snow and other similar doom-and-gloom terms relating to a winter storm. Neil went through one winter in Detroit and it was fine, so he doesn’t pay much attention to predictions and whatever else.

If they can’t play Exy, he’ll worry. Until then, it’s not an issue.

It’s snowing fairly heavily, but he figures he can still go out for a run before it’s too bad.

Andrew mumbles something from under the blankets while Neil pulls on his sweats, his socks and a hoodie. He almost snags Andrew’s fingerless gloves, decides he won’t be gone that long, and goes to find his shoes.

Andrew mumbles again.

“What?” Neil glances over, smiling despite himself when all he can see is the top of Andrew’s blond head. “Use your words, Minyard.”

The blankets shift and Andrew sits up, frowning. “Use your _brain,_ Josten, you can’t go out in a blizzard.”

“It’s just snow,” Neil says, hopping on one foot to tie his shoe.

“Yes, Neil,” Andrew says. “That’s what blizzards _are_.”

“Well, yeah,” Neil says, as if this is obvious. “Eventually.”

“Eventually.” Andrew shakes his head. “I can’t believe they gave you a degree in math. Shouldn’t you understand the concept of multiplication? Or was someone trying to kill you that day, perhaps, and you missed that lesson?”

“Probably that last one,” Neil says, cheerfully. “I won’t be gone long. It’s just snow, and I’ll only do a few miles. I can see other people out there,” he says, but really all he can see is a lot of snow plows. Still, they had to get to work somehow, right?  

“Other idiots,” Andrew agrees. He lays back down. “Fine, go join your people. At least be useful and bring home some cigarettes.”

Neil gives Andrew his two-finger salute, and heads out for his run.

***

Neil Josten is a survivor.

He’s survived the yakuza (is still surviving the yakuza), his father, Riko Moriyama and Evermore, college, Kevin Day, and eight years on the run. He plays a brutal sport in which he is significantly smaller than all the other players, and he’s good enough that he’s playing as a starter on a winning team his second year out of college. His survival instinct is the sharpest of all his many weapons, it is the marrow between his bones and the blood in his veins.

Right now it is telling him that he should have never gone running in a blizzard.

It takes him about two blocks to realize it, three more to admit it, and then another two to concede that Andrew was, in fact, correct that snow was one thing, a large, rapidly-multiplying quantity of snow was quite another. The snow is blinding in a way Neil has never in his life experienced, and apparently he should have looked up what “lake effect” meant considering how close they live to Lake Michigan.

This is not exercise, it is drudgery. This is a Kevin Day drill on repeat, with all his attendant commentary.

Survival might be in Neil’s marrow and his blood, but his bones are hewn from sheer contrariness so he keeps going, mostly out of spite. Until he’s nearly buried in excess snow from a plow that is cleaning the street, which seems, somehow, to be the last straw.

“Watch out, there,” a lady shouts at him. She’s standing in the doorway of a building and smoking a cigarette. “Little guy like you might get buried in all this snow. We won’t be seeing you until spring, heh heh heh.”

That gets a few more blocks out of him, but a text message from Andrew -- _you are so stupid, don’t come home --_ makes him turn back toward their apartment. He’s soaked and his hands are so cold they feel like ice, and he’s glad he has to stop for cigarettes because then he’ll be able to warm up for a bit in the store.

Except all of the usual bodegas are closed, with signs that say _closed for winter storm_.

Finally, he comes across one in which the proprietors must live above the shop because it’s open, but there’s a line of shivering people bundled up in arctic-winter clothing waiting with armfuls of groceries. The shelves are nearly picked clean, but Neil grabs some chips, the last jar of salsa, a Gatorade and a few cartons of ice cream.

Neil gets in line and the person in front of him -- all Neil can see is their eyes, they’re so bundled up -- mumbles, “Seriously, ice cream? _Seriously_?”

Neil shrugs. He is going to have to go home and explain why he’s a human icicle, and presenting Andrew with cigarettes and ice cream...probably will do nothing, come to think of it.

“Also why are you only wearing a hoodie? Do you not own a coat? What is _wrong_ with you?”

The person, whoever they are, is starting to sound like Kevin. The door is opening and closing constantly and the snow is blowing in, meaning it’s not very warm. Also, holding ice cream in his cold hands is the stupidest thing he’s done yet, and considering he went running in a blizzard wearing only a hoodie, that’s saying something.

He buys a couple of packs of cigarettes and two lighters. The cashier puts everything in a bag, squinting at Neil as Neil tries unsuccessfully to blow air on his hands. If everyone was right about him, this should have set his hands on fire three breaths ago.

“You have gloves, kid?” the guy asks.

“Yeah,” says Neil. “At home.” He’d protest the _kid_ thing but he’s already used to people thinking he’s perpetually a teenager thanks to his height. And if he’s being honest, he’s acted like one most of the day and it’s only eleven am.

“Uh huh.” The cashier rummages under the counter and comes up with two rags. “Here. For the love of god, take these so your hands don’t fall off.”

Neil takes the two rags, which are threadbare and stained in a way that suggests they are very, very old. He wraps them around his hands, though, and it does help. He can see, behind the cashier, a schedule for the Chicago Cyclones Exy team. There’s also a team poster -- albeit from a decade ago -- up on the wall, and a few other Cyclone-related decals and stickers. An Exy fan, then.

Neil makes a note to send the guy some tickets and gives a gruff thanks before grabbing his plastic bag.  No matter how hard he tries, there’s still an echo of unease at the thoughtfulness of strangers. He’s getting better about it.

The rags aren’t that helpful given how thin the material is, but it’s better than the nothing Neil left home with. By the time he makes it back to the apartment his teeth are chattering, he’s soaked and red-faced from the cold and the doorman asks if he needs medical help.

Neil isn’t sure if he’s joking or not.

“I’m f-fine,” he says, because, well, hey, go with what you know.

***

Andrew takes one look at him and says, “I called Ichirou and told him not to bother, I’d take care of killing you myself.”

Neil is dripping all over the foyer. He thrusts the bag at Andrew. “I got your cigarettes.”

“Oh,” Andrew says, and instead of taking the bag he crosses his arms over his chest and glares. He looks so nice and warm, Neil hates him. “Let’s not pretend you did this for me. Stop dripping everywhere.”

Neil pushes past him, drops the bags in the kitchen and then goes to bathroom. He’s freezing, and he knows Andrew is annoyed because he was worried; he doesn’t tend to mention Ichirou in his death threats otherwise. Neil wraps himself up in a towel, sighs at how good it feels on his chilled skin, and turns the shower on full-blast and as hot as it will go.

That’s….not actually a good idea, though, because it’s way _too_ hot and feels like a thousand needles stinging his body all at once. That are all on fire. Neil grits his teeth and turns the water down until eases up, then forces himself to stand under the spray until his core temperature resembles something other than a popsicle.

It takes a long time.

When he’s finished with his shower, Neil puts on sweatpants, two pairs of socks, a long-sleeved shirt and one of Andrew’s innumerable hoodies. He swipes the pair of fingerless gloves he rejected this morning with a shake of his head, then wraps all his soaked clothes into his towel and carries them into the laundry room, along with his shoes, and chucks it all into the dryer.

Then he heads into the kitchen.

Andrew is making coffee, and he glances up at Neil as Neil slides into one of the barstools at the counter.

“You can say it,” Neil says, at length.

Andrew doesn’t even glance at him, but he pours coffee into Neil’s favorite mug. Neil gives him a hopeful look, but then he watches Andrew dump four teaspoons of sugar in it and start drinking it. “I can say what, Neil?”

Yeah, he’s annoyed. His tone is the same as always, but he tends to use Neil’s name more when he’s irritated.

Neil waves a hand. “You know. ‘I told you so’.”  

Andrew sips his coffee. “I don’t think I need to.”

Neil would apologize, but he knows that’s not how this works. His apologies mean nothing, and besides, Neil’s not _sorry_ , exactly, not about going running. “Like I said, it was dumb.”  

“Like I said,” Andrew mimics, “It’s a blizzard.” His eyes run over Neil, from the top of Neil’s wet hair to the hoodie he’s wearing, to the fingers playing with one of the lighters. “Don’t lie to me.”

Neil gives a slight huff of a laugh. Andrew has always been better at seeing things when it comes to other people -- even Neil. Especially Neil. Especially when they’re _about_ Neil. “Fine. It was kind of fun. An adventure. Can I have some coffee?”

“Fun,” Andrew says, and Neil doubts anyone’s ever said that word and made it sound so much the opposite. “Fun, he says. You come home with frostbite and your hands wrapped in rags, and that’s _fun._ ”

“Well, I mean,” Neil says, trying to explain himself, “It’s like...I never got to do this before, you know?”

“You never -- you know what, I think I don’t want to talk to you,” Andrew says, and turns to the coffee machine.

“It’s just that --” Neil starts, earnestly.

Andrew holds up a hand. “I don’t want to _hear_ you talk, either.”  He finishes with the coffee pot, grabs the pack of cigarettes and the extra lighter, and goes over to the small window overlooking the sink. He climbs on the counter and opens the window, making a face at the cold air and _not_ looking at Neil. He perches there, be-hoodied and socked-feet and wearing a different pair of fingerless gloves, and he looks about nineteen years old instead of twenty-six.

He looks like an angry blond gargoyle perched on a building and smoking. Neil turns away before he starts smiling and fixes himself some coffee, then goes into the living room and lets Andrew smoke.  

***

Eventually, Neil tries to explain.

“I’ve never been able to do this before,” he says, when they’re both on the couch, comfortable under blankets while the snow continues to fall. The blizzard is rattling the windows of their apartment, and they’ve put _Firefly_ on the DVD player. “Stupid decisions would get me killed, you know? Now I can make them, and they don’t.”

“You seem,” Andrew says, “awfully sure about that.” He has the hood of his hoodie pulled up over his head, as if the inside of their apartment is not perfectly dry and the snow is somehow going to make its way inside. He hates the cold.

“No, it’s like...yeah, okay, going running was dumb. I was cold, and should have had on gloves and, fine, probably a coat--”

“ _Probably_?”

Neil ignores that. “--but I mean, this is what people do, you know?” He wasn’t sure how to explain it. “I’m allowed to try something and have it not work. And, yes, you’re annoyed and I get it, but no one died.”

“I forget that you’re a junkie,” Andrew mutters, but he stares down at his hands in a way that Neil knows, by now, means he’s thinking, processing something that is important. “I understand what it’s like to want to feel something, Neil. I do not understand the lengths to which you take it. I don’t like it, either.”

Four years ago this level of honesty would have floored them both. Now, it’s part of what it means to be in this thing together -- two broken people trying as hard as they can to be something whole.

This is also a perfect example of the difference between them, Neil thinks -- they both want to carve out pieces of a life that is built on more than just surviving. But Neil wants to live his life like he plays Exy -- he wants the freedom to take chances, he wants the thrill of last-second goals, he wants the exhilaration of pushing his body to its limits, wants the ache and burn of every single bruise and scrape. His body is marked by other people’s cruelty and other people’s choices made on his behalf -- he wants to cover it with the marks of the life he chose for himself.

He wants to go running in a blizzard, even if it’s cold. Even if he doesn’t have a coat. Neil had no idea, before today, what a blizzard was -- he knew the word for it, knew the concept, but he didn’t know the bite of it on his skin, in his lungs. And now he does, and he can’t find it in himself to regret that. Especially now, safe and warm and happy with this new knowledge earned like a _win._

Andrew is a different story. “I know,” Neil says, quietly, and reaches across to find Andrew’s hand. He’s still in a mood, Neil can feel it in the tension he’s carrying even in his fingers. But he lets Neil touch him, and Neil scoots a little closer and Andrew does not retreat or tell him _no_.

In the years they’ve been together, Neil understands that part of Andrew’s anger is that he feels anything at all -- he wants it, and he hates it, and if they’re using Exy as a metaphor then Andrew wants control and wants to choose what he will let in, needs to make sure that even if he _does_ let something past him he will still win the game. And he needs the game to be interesting enough to bother in the first place.

“I didn’t mean to make you worry,” Neil says, carefully, because this is hard -- he is not sorry he went running, but he hates that Andrew worried about him even if he’s still happy there is someone out there who _does_ worry about him. He rubs his fingers over the backs of Andrew’s knuckles. “I won’t lie, though. I’m glad that you worry, but I’m not -- I’m not trying to _make_ you.”

Finally, Andrew sighs and squeezes his fingers, and Neil knows they’re okay. “Next time, wear a fucking coat. And gloves. With fingers, you idiot. They make those.”

“Okay,” Neil says. He pulls his arm up and tugs Andrew’s over his shoulder, then moves easily into Andrew’s side. “You want to watch another episode?”

Before Andrew can answer, his phone buzzes. “Coach,” Andrew says, and for half a second, Neil thinks he means Wymack. But then Andrew answers and Neil knows the inflections Andrew uses with certain people, how they are different, and he knows this is not Wymack.

This is Coach Gordon, former Raven and coach of the Chicago Cyclones.

“Fine,” says Andrew, and then, “Yes, I’ll tell him.” Then he glances at Neil, and Andrew doesn’t smile and hasn’t in years, but again, Neil knows him better than anyone and he hears it in Andrew’s voice and thinks, _uh-oh._ “By the way, Coach, your star striker went running in a blizzard without a coat.”

“Oh, my God, you’re _telling_ on me?” Neil glares at him, incensed. “Andrew!”

“Coach wants to talk to you,” Andrew says, and hands the phone over. He might not smile, but he still smirks with the best of them.

Neil grabs the phone and says, “Hi, Coach, I wasn’t gone that long.”

“Do you not own a winter coat, Josten? Is that it? Am I not paying you enough?”

Technically, no, since eighty percent of Neil’s salary goes to the yakuza. “It’s fine, Coach. Oh, uh.” Neil remembers the guy from the convenience store. “Do you think you could give this guy some tickets? Good ones, too.” He gives the name of the store and a brief explanation of why he wants them.

His coach is silent for a moment, and then, “Let me get this straight. You want to give center-court, glass seats to a guy just because he gave you two dirty rags during a blizzard.”

“Yeah.”

Coach Gordon sighs. “You and Minyard make a lot more sense to me, the more I get to know you. Consider it done.”

Neil hangs up and turns an indignant look on Andrew. “I can’t believe you told him that, what are you, four?”

Andrew, who is now perched on the arm of the couch eating M&Ms from -- somewhere, Neil didn’t see him get up and leave but Andrew has hidden candy stashes all over the apartment -- just shrugs. “You’re the one that wants to do stupid things to feel _alive._  I’m just helping you get the most from that experience.”

Andrew’s face is calm, more drowsy than distant, and Neil knows from experience that Andrew is here, centered and present, and this is as close to playful as he ever is. Neil points at him and says, “I’m going to text Kevin and tell him you’re eating nothing but ice cream and candy during a week we have no practice.”

“You’re the one that brought home the groceries. Besides, do you really think Kevin is going to be surprised?” He pours another handful of M&Ms into his palm, then throws one at Neil’s forehead and hits it smack in the middle. “Put on the next episode, already.”

***

A few hours later, Neil is lying in bed -- warm, sated and running his fingers over the marks Andrew left on him. These are even better, in Neil’s opinion, than the ones he gets from playing Exy.

He doesn’t tell Andrew, though. He’s a striker. He’ll use that knowledge when he needs it to score. The thought makes Neil grin, all sex-dumb and happy.

“Stop smiling,” Andrew says, returning to bed. He’s freshly showered, his blond hair pushed back from his face. He gets in bed and pulls the covers up nearly to his chin, then pulls on one of Neil’s old hoodies from PSU -- he likes them because they are several sizes too large for both of them -- on and tugs the hoodie up over his head again.

Neil is just about to offer to keep him warm in lieu of the hoodie when he hears his phone buzz. He sits up, reaching for his own t-shirt -- with Andrew dressed like an arctic explorer, the heat set way higher than it needs to be and all the covers piled on top of them, he won’t need to wear anything else to stay warm -- and grabs his phone.

It’s a message from Kevin.

_Buy a coat, Josten. And tell Minyard to eat a vegetable. For fuck’s sake, can you two remember you’re going to be Court?_

Neil reaches over and tugs hard at Andrew’s hoodie, so the material covers his eyes. “That’s low even for you, Minyard.”

“Hardly," says Andrew, and settles down. "Turn the light off, Neil." 

Neil turns off the light. 


End file.
